The Wizardwar (22 page)

The apparition bowed. “My pardon for this intrusion, Lord Basel, but I have grave news.”

“This is Mason, one of my apprentices,” the wizard interjected softly.

“I am sending this messenger from your tower in the king’s city, for I cannot bring word to you directly. Farrah was found murdered in the front hall of the tower. The servants summoned the militia. I was shaken from sleep and brought to the magehounds for questioning.” He hesitated for a moment, swallowing hard. “The knife that killed Farrah was found in my room, along with a vial from a potion of forgetfulness that erased the entire evening from my memory.

“I am innocent of this, Lord Basel, I swear it! There is nothing in me, no magic in all of Halruaa, that could compel me to do this thing. Yet the magehounds say Farrah died believing it was my hand that struck the blow.”

The ghostly image broke off and passed a hand wearily over his face. “Please don’t return on my behalf,” he said in a softer voice. “Farrah is gone, and in deference to your position, I am allowed to remain under house arrest in your tower until you have time to address this matter. Tzigone needs your best efforts. The rest can wait.”

His shoulder squared. “I suspect you will wish to carry the news to Lord Noor yourself. I should warn you that he is unlikely to believe in my innocence. Farrah and I have spoken of marriage. I have no wizard’s lineage to offer, and Farrah’s family considered my love an insult to their daughter and their family. They already think me a peasant and a knave. Defending me would only anger them. Let them say what they will. They can do me no further harm.”

Mason’s voice broke, and the image disappeared like a bursting soap bubble. The seabird leaped from Basel’s shoulder and winged off toward the south.

Basel watched the avian messenger until it disappeared into the clouds. “I’ll travel with you as far as the Noor estates,” he said without looking back at the silent jordaini. “Their daughter was murdered while in my care.” He started to say more, then shook his head and strode quickly away.

“Your friend Tzigone was their fellow apprentice. She seems to be near the center of every tangle we encounter,” Andris pointed out.

“I’ve noticed that,” Matteo said in a dry tone. “In Tzigone’s defense, however, she does not create all the chaos that surrounds her. From the day we met, Kiva has never been more than two steps behind. I would be surprised if this murder proves to be an exception.”

Andris abruptly turned his gaze on the landscape below. Recognizing his friend’s need for silence and privacy, Matteo followed suit.

The rugged Nath was an unpleasant memory, and the fields and forests spread out beneath them were lush and green. Matteo leaned on the ship’s rail, gazing down over his Halruaa with the fond eyes of a babe for its mother or a lover his lass.

The Noor estates bordered the Swamp of Akhlaur. A faint cloud misted the forest canopy like a net of delicate silver filigree crowning a wild elf痴 hair, or perhaps a cunningly spun web, ready to ensnare all who ventured too near. Both images brought to mind the memory of Kiva’s beautiful, malevolent, elven face. A chill passed through Matteo, and he pushed away from the rail. He was not unhappy when Basel disembarked, and the skyship sailed away from the swamp and its memories.

By late afternoon, the sweeping lands surrounding the Jordaini College came into view, and far beyond, a slim line of blue and silver sea. The skyship settled down upon a lake at the northern border of the jordaini estate. While Andris set about making Iago’s funeral arrangements and summoning healers to care for Themo, Matteo went to the stables and selected a horse for the ride to the college.

He set a brisk pace, for sunset was not far away. At this hour the fields were bustling with activity as people harvested the endless round of crops, tended orchards, despoiled beehives of their sweet bounty, and cared for pampered livestock.

These lands were worked by commoners, Halruaan peasants who made their own livelihood while supplying the Jordaini College. As Matteo rode through, children tossed down their hoes to wave cheerily, obviously delighted for even this small diversion.

He did not find it amiss that a child should work alongside his parents, for his own youth had been no different. From before dawn until well after sunset, taxing lessons and hours of memory drills alternated with rigorous physical training. Rare was the moment spent without either a book or a weapon in hand.

Yet he also remembered time for play. A smile curved Matteo’s lips as he rounded a bend in the dirt path and the river came into view. Year after year, melting snow from the highest mountains brought a rush of white water. Each spring’s flood widened the ravine just a bit. Here an aged tree leaned over the water. A few young boys, naked as newborn mice, had hung a rope from a tree limb, and they took turns swinging out over the ravine and dropping into the water. Their hoots of laughter filled the air, interspersed with good-natured boasts and insults. This was a familiar scene, one often played out downriver among the jordaini lads.

But these boys could expect to learn a trade, wed a neighbor’s daughter, build a cottage they might call their own, and raise children who would know who their parents were. For the jordaini, there would be no family. This was ensured by a final secret rite, a so-called “purification ritual” inflicted before they left for the wide world. Thanks to Kiva’s machinations, another man had taken Matteo’s place. The elf woman’s experience with human males had left her believing that Matteo would disgrace himself and his order, given half a chance.

As Matteo rode through the jordaini lands, he searched the faces of every young man he passed. He didn’t really expect to find the man who’d taken his place, of course, and after a while his thoughts shifted to calculating the odds against this occurrence. He was therefore surprised when his gaze fell upon a man whose hair was the same color as his, a dark and distinctive chestnut rarely seen in the southlands.

He reined his horse in for a closer look. The man was standing at the side of the road, gazing morosely at something in the high grasses. A low, wooden cart listed to one side on a broken wheel. Two piebald carthorses took advantage of the small disaster to nibble at the roadside meadow flowers.

The young man was tall and strongly built, much like Matteo in general size and appearance. On close examination his features were not all that similar, but the unusual richness of red in his hair drew the eye and cast a powerful illusion.

Matteo called out a greeting. “May I help you, brother?”

“Don’t see how. The wheel splintered in that rut and the thrice-bedamned millstone tipped off the cart,” the peasant grumbled. He glanced up, and immediately sank into the deep bow that showed proper respect for wizards and their jordaini counselors.

Matteo brushed aside the stammered apologies and asked the man’s name.

A look of apprehension crept over the young man’s face at being singled out in this fashion, but he didn’t hesitate.

“Benn,” he supplied. “Of village Falaria.”

“All problems have solutions, Benn, and yours is easier than most. I see you carry an extra wheel,” Matteo noted as he swung down from his horse.

“What fool wouldn’t? The wheel’s the least of it. Getting that millstone back in the cart-that’s what I call a problem.”

He looked surprised when Matteo peeled off his white tunic and began to drag the heavy wooden wheel off the cart, but he fell to work beside the jordain. In short order they had the new wheel in place, and then they stood side by side eyeing the millstone.

“Too heavy for two men,” concluded the peasant.

Matteo’s gaze fell upon a pair of long, stout oak oars lashed to the side of the cart. “Not necessarily. A Halruaan sage once claimed that he could lift the entire world, provided he had a lever long enough.”

“Easy to say, hard to prove,” Benn observed. “For starters, where would he stand?”

Matteo laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “An excellent point. Let’s see what we can manage, short of standing on the moon and using Yggdrasil, the Northmen’s world tree, as a lever.”

Together they rolled a likely boulder to use as a fulcrum. Ben guided the horses and cart into position, backing up little by little as Matteo used the oar to raise the millstone. At last he lowered one edge of the stone onto the low cart, then moved the fulcrum into position to lever up the far side.

When the task was done, Benn handed Matteo a goatskin of wine. Matteo tipped it back for a polite sip. As he lowered it, he noticed the peasant eyeing him appraisingly.

“No offense intended, my lord, but we might be mistaken for brothers.”

Matteo was silent for several moments, not sure what good might come of taking the path this observation opened. “Perhaps, in certain lights and under certain extraordinary circumstances, we might even be mistaken for the same man.”

The peasant nodded, accepting this. “I often wondered whose place I took.”

His tone was matter-of-fact and without rancor. Matteo swiftly cut him off. “Don’t say more.”

“What harm? You know the story as well as I.” He met Matteo’s gaze with a level stare. “No, I see that’s not true. You’re packed with more questions than my sister’s five year-old son.”

“You may have been enspelled not to speak of this.”

“Doesn’t seem likely. I told my Phoebe when I asked her to wed, and here I stand. If it sets your mind at ease, I don’t have much memory of the before and during. Afterwards, the gatekeeper came to see me. Made me promise to ‘foreswear vengeance,’ which I guess is a fancy way of saying I should let sleeping dragons lie. He also said the man whose place I took had no part in it and would half-kill anyone who did.”

Matteo gave a grim nod of agreement. After a moment, he ventured, “Are you treated well here?”

The peasant pointed toward a snug cottage, just over a stone bridge that crossed the river. Well-tended fields surrounded his domain. A small flock of goats grazed on a Ml, and a pair of rothe calves gamboled in the paddock.

“If I hadn’t been brought to the Jordaini College, my years would have been spent in another man’s field. See what I have here. The jordaini hold title to the land, but it’s mine to work as I see fit.”

Benn shrugged. “My Phoebe pines for babes from time to time, but we two have a fine life together. She is mistress of her own home. She makes her cheeses and sells them to the jordaini for a fair price, and she’s a good hand with weaving. I bought her a fine loom for her bride’s gift,” he said with pride. “How many men can claim that?”

The jordain’s answering smile was genuine. “Few men achieve such contentment. Your happiness lifts a burden from my heart. It surprises me, though, that the guard could produce so much ready coin. A good loom is a costly thing.”

“Oh, wasn’t the guard. ‘Twas a master paid me off.” Matteo’s heart thudded painfully. “Would you know him if you saw him again?”

The young man snorted. “Not such a chore. An old man, but tall-about the height of you and me. Had a beak like a buzzard. This sound like anyone you know?” The jordain nodded, for he could not force speech through his suddenly constricted throat. There was only one master who fit that description-his favorite master, an elderly battle wizard, and the last man in the Jordaini College whom Matteo would have suspected of involvement in this grim chapter. The last man he would have suspected of conspiring with Kiva.

With a heavy heart, Matteo mounted his horse and kicked it into a run. As he galloped toward the college gates, Andris’s words rang in his mind:

Some truths are like dark mirrors.

Seeking his reflection in this particular man’s face, if it came to that, would be a difficult task indeed.

Tzigone sank down onto a large stone, too exhausted to walk farther. She stared out into the mist-a constant, chilling presence that never seemed to recede a single pace no matter how far she walked. There was no edge to that mist, at least, none that she could find.

She was reaching the edges of her endurance. This morning she’d had to cut a new notch in her belt just to keep her trousers up. Time passed strangely here, but she suspected that several days had passed since her last meal. Though she’d rationed herself sips of water like a dwarven miser doling out gold, the waterskin she’d brought from Halruaa was empty.

She idly tossed pebbles into a small pool, watching the ripples spread. Fierce thirst urged her to throw herself at the water, but her days as a street performer had left her with a wealth of cautionary tales. Many a story warned of mortals passing through strange magical realms, only to be trapped forever if they ate or drank.

Tzigone gathered her remaining strength and sank into the deep, trancelike concentration that preceded her borrowed memories. Each day, it was easier to slip into her mother’s past, perhaps because she herself was close to sharing her mother’s fate.

That uncharacteristically grim thought dissipated in a flash of sunset color and sweeping winds. In this memory, Keturah was riding a flying wyvern! A small grin of anticipation lit Tzigone’s face as she fell completely into her mother’s memory, once again becoming Keturah in a vision more vivid than any dream.

Keturah dug her fingers between the blue-black scales of the wyvern’s back and leaned low over the creature’s sinuous neck. The thunderous beat of batlike wings buffeted her, and the dense forest below sped by in a verdant blur.

The young wizard clung desperately to her perch and to the magic that had summoned the wyvern. She could sense the malevolent will of the dragonlike creature, alternately puzzled and angered by Keturah’s gentle compulsion.

Submitting was difficult for the creature, and cooperation impossible. Each downbeat of the wyvern’s wings lifted them lurching into the sky, and each short glide was a stomach-turning drop, for the wyvern simply did not think to adjust its flight for the extra weight of a passenger.

A furious shriek burst from the wyvern. Keturah looked up, startled, as a shadow passed over her. Above soared an enormous griffin, wings outstretched. It glided in majestic circles as it took measure of the wyvern and its rider.